


Puppy Piles

by musicmillennia



Series: Musket Books [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Did I Mention Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Dying Washing Machines, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Slurring, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan's washer is dying a horrible death and he wants to finish the job. Right after he sleeps for the next month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454800) by [uena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena). 



> This series has no set timeline yet, but I think if I post anymore after this one then I'm going to have to re-order them eventually. If you're ever confused about where something happens, don't hesitate to ask because you shouldn't have to suffer from my condition of Selective Participation.

D'Artagnan's washer sounds like a dying man when it spins. He's tried fixing it himself, but there's a reason he repairs vehicles and not appliances; if anything, he somehow turned the cries into death screeches. He can't afford a repairman, let alone an entirely new washer, and he's not asking his stepfather for money, both on principle and the fact that the man is already paying for what D'Artagnan's scholarship didn't cover  _and_ the massages his wife mandates for his stepson.

Speaking of, he could really use one right now. Maybe Aramis offers freebies after a certain amount of all-nighters pulled as a result of strenuous schoolwork and screeching washers.

It's not like D'Artagnan hasn't tried doing his laundry during the day; he simply doesn't have the time. Every attempt has ended with the clothes staying in the wash for too long after a cycle, so when he's finally home to stay he has to restart it and listen to its agonized screams while he throws something in the microwave.

What little sleep he's managed to get happens in far too brief naps between classes and work, or during the blissfully quiet clunking of his dryer's turn.

Basically, D'Artagnan's washer is dying a horrible death and he wants to finish the job. Right after he sleeps for the next month.

(Bad enough he hasn't slept properly since his father died. D'Artagnan chugs his coffee and tries not to think about that.)

Well, at least it's Wednesday. He only has two classes on Wednesdays, and they're both in the morning. Unfortunately, he's only got a couple hours until work, and his boss is one of those rare gems of bosses that you actually like and don't want to disappoint; furthermore, there is no hope for a nap in between, because Wednesday has been designated Porthos Day. They go out on the weekends, but since this is a weekday, it's special.

Even if he doesn't get to nap, D'Artagnan is more than looking forward to his shiny new boyfriend's hugs and kisses. Because Porthos' hugs are the stuff of legends. And his kisses last for, like. A thousand years.

D'Artagnan really needs sleep.

As always, Musket Books gently punches him in the face with its old book smell when he walks in, waking him up enough for another sip of coffee. Autumn's chill has set in, and the general warmth of the place is soothing after the bite. It also makes D'Artagnan's eyelids droop, so he rolls his eyes every which way until he finds—ah.

"You've looked better."

D'Artagnan doesn't have it in him for a glare, so he opts for narrowing his eyes and staring intently instead. "I take offense to that."

Mirth bursts on Porthos' face. "What?"

"I  _said_ , I take offense to that."

Porthos starts laughing. D'Artagnan becomes torn between being irritated and being filled with lovely tingles.

He really needs sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a difference between what D'Artagnan thinks he sounds like and what he actually sounds like.
> 
> This just in, Porthos is a goner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am basing D'Artagnan's overtired behavior on my own. Amplified of course, for comedic purposes. Hope you get a kick out of it ;D

Porthos is sure D'Artagnan's trying to speak French, but all he hears is: "Idake uff'nse tuhth't."

And his  _face_ —is he trying to glare at Porthos? He looks like Athos before he got his reading glasses: eyes all scrunched up, peering through his mess of bangs.

Porthos steps forward and brushes said mess from D'Artagnan's face. While he has been worried for weeks over his shiny new boyfriend's obvious lack of sleep, somehow he doesn't have it in him to stop grinning like a lovestruck idiot yet. Because D'Artagnan is literally a puppy who waltzes around like he can take on a grown Rottweiler and it's too adorable for Porthos' health.

"How much coffee've you had?" Porthos asks, quietly so he doesn't startle the Chihuahua. (He nicknames D'Artagnan's moods with dog breeds. Don't tell Aramis.)

D'Artagnan...stares. Blinks. Then looks down at his coffee like he's never seen it before.

"Muhbee maffagallooooon." Oh no, he's dragging out his words. Porthos wants to bury him in blankets.

"Okay," he says, despite having no idea what D'Artagnan just said. "How 'bout we head upstairs to mine?"

'Mine' actually meaning 'Mine, Athos, and Aramis'', but Porthos doesn't think D'Artagnan can process that at the moment. Yeah, he's just humming at Porthos, clearly half-gone despite the huge travel mug in his hand.

Scrap the blankets. Porthos is easily worth twenty of 'em anyway; Aramis doesn't lie about these things.

He carefully guides D'Artagnan to the stairs, half-lifting him onto the first—only to be weakly pushed away as D'Artagnan whines, "Ic'ndoouhhhht!" in that 'fight me I'm small' voice that makes even Athos crack a smile.

Porthos presses a kiss to his temple and obligingly lets go. Only thing better than the pup's barking is watching him trying to actually do what he's yammering about.

D'Artagnan doesn't even make it past the first step before he does down. Porthos kind of loves him.

Another whine, despite being saved from meeting the floor face first. This is not going to work.

"Come on, up yah get," Porthos orders gently, taking D'Artagnan's coffee in one hand before scooping D'Artagnan himself up by the waist and throwing him over his shoulder. (Hopefully nobody misconstrues anything.)

D'Artagnan slurs something else, but all Porthos hears is "thangoomercoolees". He even pats Porthos on the ass.

Porthos is going to implode if he doesn't stop soon.

 

* * *

 

 Aramis is off on Wednesdays, so Porthos isn't surprised when he opens the door to find his best friend covered in charcoal and dressed in one of his hoodies, drinking tea. What is out of the ordinary though, is Aramis' total silence when he sees Porthos.

Porthos sighs through his nose. "Don't."

Aramis looks like  _he's_ about to implode. "I have no idea what you mean," he says over-casually, "Please, continue right ahead with your boyfriend. I took the liberty of covering your bed with roses for the occasion."

D'Artagnan moans, "Err'mis?"

Porthos can at least understand that one. "Yeah darlin'," he says, placing the coffee on the nearest countertop, "'e thinks I'm about to have my way with you."

Suddenly D'Artagnan turns into a wriggling worm. "Uhmehguhahw'shahcuhdmercoolees. Jus'ooterred."

Aramis is turning purple.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like D'Artagnan/Athos Friendship, this is the chapter for you.

Of course Athos proves to be more helpful than his fiancé. Drawn out from his study by D'Artagnan's vigorous slurring, he takes in the sight of his best friend and his best friend's shiny new boyfriend with only a raised eyebrow before getting to work.

Once his divorce was finalized, Athos had been in desperate need of a hobby that didn't drive him to drink. His writing career was out of the question then, and Aramis is a terrible art teacher, so Porthos had taken up the gauntlet and showed him a few tricks in the kitchen. Athos is nothing if not a fast learner, and Aramis loves both of them for it.

Thing is, he only cooks for people he likes.

Porthos is grinning like an idiot again.

"Ninon's gonna take the counter in a minute," he says in lieu of possibly leaving a big sloppy kiss on Athos' cheek.

"I am aware of the schedule, Porthos," Athos replies dryly. "Take your boyfriend to bed."

Aramis lets out a high-pitched noise that sounds like a teenager getting kneed in the balls, which is exactly what he's gonna be if he keeps this up. Porthos cuffs him over the head with his free hand as he passes.

There's an abrupt resistance before he can leave the kitchen. Behind him, there are stumbling footsteps, followed by a soft  _thump_ , and Athos' surprised huff of breath. Confused, Porthos looks over his shoulder and—

Oh.

Oh  _no_.

D'Artagnan's eyes are half-lidded, but excited. He swings his and Athos' hands between them, and Porthos' heart is going to burst.

"'Thos, heeeeey!"

Athos, now stretched over the counter to the point where he is being forced to be on tip-toe, pats D'Artagnan's hand while looking impossibly fond. "Hello, D'Artagnan."

Porthos doesn't even think about stopping Aramis from sneaking his phone out. He's going to need this moment burned onto a CD for reasons that are vital to his personal well-being.

"Have you not been sleeping well?" Athos asks.

D'Artagnan shakes their hands again instead of his own head. "Muhw'sha'sdine."

Athos is fluent in Slurish after living in the country's capital of Anjou for most of his life, so he has no problem translating. And he gets this  _look_ on his face, one that is so full of affection and warmth Porthos gets angina.

"Your washer is dying?"

Fuck everything sideways with a Nabakov bestseller.

"Yaaaas!" D'Artagnan mewls, "Unissuhluhd, 'Thos!"

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Buhmercooleesc'rredmehup."

Athos' eyes widen a fraction. If Porthos didn't know any better, he'd think the man was about to hug something. Preferably the adorable little shit hanging off Porthos' shoulder.

"Hercules carried you up?" he says, and Porthos' heart stops. "Yes, Hercules is very noble that way."

Pretty sure there's a threeway system failure happening right now. Aramis has graduated to a nice shade of magenta.

D'Artagnan is decidedly Not Helping, slamming his face against Porthos' shoulder blade and humming out a muffled, "Merrrrcoolees."

"Porthos is Hercules," Aramis squeaks.

Porthos is in love, is what he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to The Three Musketeers, Anjou wine is top notch shit. So there you go.
> 
> Also, cookie to whoever got the Nabakov joke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more unto the breach. There are definitely going to be more of these after I finish this one, so beware.

The other three only have themselves to blame for piling on D'Artagnan like they did—Porthos wrapped around him from behind, Athos' chin over his head, Aramis settled on his stomach—because as soon as he opens his eyes, he starts flailing like a beached shark.

Basically, Athos gets a smack to the face, Aramis a faceful of Not Fiancé's Crotch, and Porthos a harsh elbow to the stomach. They spring away from him with various groans and cries of surprise.

"At least buy me a drink first!" Aramis complains, wiping his mouth.

D'Artagnan's not paying attention though, because it's dark outside, which means he's missed work, which means he could be fired, which means he can't help his stepfather with tuition, which means—

Porthos yanks him into a kiss and everything grinds to a halt.

"Oh," says Aramis.

"Help me with the soup," says Athos.

It's far from good—D'Artagnan's still got drool slathered all over his mouth and chin, Porthos' using too much teeth—but it's pretty great, because Porthos' bulk is a solid comfort and he's got his hands in D'Artagnan's hair, which.  _Yes_.

When Porthos separates them a few centimeters, he whispers, "This' probably a good time to tell you Tréville's my father."

D'Artagnan knows he hasn't gotten much sleep lately, but this is the first hallucination he's had. Because there's no way that's true. He is  _not_ dating his gem of a boss' kid—regardless if said kid is an actual Hercules and probably twice his size in sheer muscle.

"Remember when I said I was adopted after a lotta foster homes? Tréville's the one who kept me."

Porthos plays idly with D'Artagnan's hair, and  _okay_ , definitely not a hallucination. So. Fuck.

"How long has he known?" D'Artagnan dares to ask.

Porthos gives him a consolatory peck. "Since we met."

D'Artagnan falls back onto the pillows with a groan.

"An' when I told 'im over the phone that you couldn't make it today, you may or may not've called 'im Dad."

The groan escalates to dying elephant noises.

"Oh, and Aramis filmed it on his phone. I think it's on his Instagram now."

D'Artagnan is now a dying whale.

"But hey, Athos made you soup! Means 'e likes you."

Back down to the dying elephant.

When they reach the door a few minutes later, Porthos blinds D'Artagnan with a big megawatt smile.

"D'you really think I'm Hercules?"

Screw all that. D'Artagnan is actually a banshee.

 

* * *

 

Turns out it's nearly midnight; D'Artagnan slept for about thirteen hours.

Damn.

"Feeling better?" Athos asks when the muffled humiliated screeching dies down.

D'Artagnan rakes a hand through his hair. "Yes. Sorry about...whatever I said."

"No, no," Aramis grins, "I think you made Porthos' week, Meg."

For fuck's sake. "Start calling me that Aramis and I am going to stop leaving you tips."

Porthos snorts. "You still give 'im tips?"

D'Artagnan flicks Aramis' ear before taking a seat at the counter. "Have you ever had one of his massages?"

"I don't see how complimenting me goes with the ear flicking," Aramis mutters, rubbing the sore spot.

Athos turns shortly afterwards, and two things are set in front of D'Artagnan: a bowl of delicious-smelling chicken noodle soup, and a magazine open to pages of washing machines. With the prices whited out.

"Pick one," Athos says.

D'Artagnan glares at him. "No."

Porthos tucks a stray hair behind his ear, like that will convince him (and to his credit, it  _is_ a pretty surefire method outside of money matters, see The Mother Incident). "Pick one."

D'Artagnan slaps his hand away. "No."

Aramis smirks, "Too late, we already did."

"We just wanted to give you the illusion of choice," Athos adds.

What? Fuck these guys with their financial stability and immeasurable wealth.

Aramis pats his shoulder. "Consider it a gift for making Porthos happy."

And Porthos smiles at him, and this is just Not Fair.

"Eat your soup," Athos says.

D'Artagnan shoves his spoon into the bowl; it's a thin consolation when he manages to splash Athos' hand.

"I'll—"

Porthos covers his mouth. "If you finish that sentence with 'pay you back,' Athos will punch you with all the money he doesn't use."

Aramis laughs, and Athos definitely does not disagree.

D'Artagnan repeats: fuck these guys.

(He kind of loves them.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT NOW I'M STRONGER THAN YESTERDAY  
> NOW THERE'S NOTHIN' BUT-A MY WAY, NOW  
> LONELINESS AIN'T KILLIN' ME NO MORE  
> I'M  
> I'M  
> STRONGER!

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: NSYNC and Backstreet Boys for hand-written, Britney Spears joining them for the online posting.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
